Language of the Bus

In the darkness, a forgotten wallet murmurs silence,
in empty pockets ignites a map with no journey.
The wheels breathe footsteps no one has ever taken,
and the seat recounts lights it hasn’t yet seen.
The empty bottle translates the rumble of roads untraveled,
the rusty key sings of doors that don’t exist,
a broken pen sketches routes into the air,
and the cold glass reflects names of unseen cities.
The dormant bus is a storyteller of unmade trips,
the language of things ascends the corridors of desire,
every gaze to the window is a ticket to the unseen,
and the darkness remains the station where we never arrive.